Science and Progress
by mylia11
Summary: What would you do to save the one you loved? If you were Sherlock Holmes, you world travel across times, worlds, even dimensions just to save the life of your beloved John Watson. Even if he did not love you in return.


John Watson was dying.

The doctors declared that he had little time remaining for it had reached to vital parts of his heart though they were trying their best to slow the process down. I thought it was idiotic of John to have gotten himself heart cancer; how dare he, when he was supposed to be by my side, running around London, chasing after criminals to the end of our days. Then I remembered that John had no control of the matter.

If he did, he most certainly would not have chosen to go out like this. He would never resolve for a quiet death. He would never leave me alone.

I was with John at that very moment, discussing an experiment I had wished to preform. John was still smiling; he always smiled whenever I came around, expecting it would help both of us cope. It didn't, but the gesture was appreciated. "It sounds brilliant Sherlock. I bet cats would feel the same way."

I nodded in agreement. Suddenly, words poured out of my mouth that I did not wish to come out. "I wanted to do it with you." I cursed myself for admitting that, for at that moment John's smile slipped and he turned away, taking deep breaths.

"It'll still be brilliant," he said, after regaining his composure, "even without me. Do it tonight, okay?"

"I will report back tomorrow with my findings," I promised, trying to ease the tension.

John smiled once more. "Of course. I'll be waiting."

And we sat there in silence until the nurses came to escort me out of the hospital, as though deciding I had done enough damage.

* * *

I didn't do the experiment when I arrived back home.

Instead, I went to my particular window, violin in hand, and played a secret piece that only my own ears had ever heard.

It was dedicated to John; the melody perfectly captured how I felt about the doctor, how whenever I looked at him I felt warmth and blissful and generally happy. The song was never light and happy as well, for he knew that John would never reciprocate my feelings. And though it hurt my heart every day to even look at him, the knowledge that John would be there, every day, kept me going.

And now I wasn't sure how long I would last without him. How long he would last before the cancer claimed him.

I knew I could not live without John. I would much rather John live and be happily married with some woman who made him smile and made his life complete than have all that snatched away from him even if he was madly in love with me.

I would give up anything and everything to keep John alive. Except I didn't know how. So I wistfully played my song into the night.

* * *

They wouldn't let me see John the next day.

Lestrade was there waiting for me. He said that John had started vomiting blood, and his condition was growing steadily weaker.

I ignored him as he tried to stop me from walking into the operation room. John needed me to be there with him. He needed to know I would always be there. Even in the end. If this was the end. Delete that; John would be fine. I just had to see for myself.

The door was locked. I should have expected it. There was a horrible feeling in my throat, as if there were poison in the very air I inhaled as I walked away. Lestrade called after me.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I am fine Lestrade," I replied, avoiding his gaze. But before I ventured further, I stopped and said something very uncharacteristic. "When John comes out, tell him the experiment was a success."

Before he could question me further, I left him to wallow in his confusion. I did the same with a strange sense of sorrow mixed with guilt. I believe they call that a 'heartache'. John would know. He always did.

* * *

It was raining; rain reminded me of John.

He would look out the window with a small smile, turn to me, and ask me to play something on the violin. He would sit quietly in his chair, drinking his tea and just listen to the rain and the music. I confronted him about the reasoning behind the requests, to which he had responded by saying it offered a nice, temporary sense of serenity: something he missed during the war.

I suspect he would know that I was playing, for it had subconsciously turned into a habit. As sentimental as that was, I knew I would never be able to stop. I wondered whether I would feel more or less sadness after John passed. _If _John passed. Delete all of that. John would be fine; there was no doubt in my mind.

Unfortunately, there was someone else who loved the rain as much as John did because it gave him a chance to pull out his umbrella. In fact, the very man was walking up the steps up to the flat at that very moment. I put the violin away, knowing perfectly well what he was about to say.

"Good evening, Sherlock" he said, smiling casually.

"Mycroft," I grimaced. "What do you want?"

"I cannot just come to see how my dear brother is doing?" he replied, as I decided he didn't deserve social pleasantries and turned away, going back to the violin.

He sighed, slightly shaking his head. "You can't keep ignoring the problem, Sherlock. You know as well as I do that John has little to no chance of surviving."

Though I kept my composure I could not stop my hand from slipping, causing a loud shrieking noise to echo through the flat. "Piss off."

"You must face the facts and make the necessary preparations; I may be able to set up a meeting with a lawyer later in the week, where we can arrange the distributions of his assets. In fact, he has prematurely agreed to leave all of his possessions to you."

I stopped playing, not comprehending the fact that John was giving everything to me. All his stupid jumpers, small medical notebooks, even the laptop that was already mine. Yet I would give it all up just to have him safe and sound, back where he belongs.

I never noticed Mycroft leaving. Nor when there was a used handkerchief in my hand. Nor when I began to collapse onto my bed and drift off. The only thing occupying my mind was how stupid John was.

And how he was dying.

* * *

Someone was following me to the hospital.

Lestrade had called earlier to inform me that they were allowing visitors; though he had never said it, I could tell by the tone in his voice the situation had not improved. But the matter with the my mysterious shadow had to be dealt with first.

I dramatically increased my pace, expecting them to flow, then suddenly decreased it and allowed them to slide into me. When I turned around, I could not hold back my surprise.

"Hello, Sherlock," smiled Irene Adler. Beside me, a black SUV pulled up. "Get in; we have much to discuss."

Once we were seated and on our way, I went straight to business, as they say. "Why are you here?"

She smiled once more, but it was more sincere than the first. "I heard about Doctor Watson. It's a shame; he's a good man, especially for putting up with you for so long."

Sneering, though I was heavily affected by the response, I retorted with, "Were you here just to offer your condolences for a man you've known for all of three minutes and were just trying to use to get to me?"

"No," she said, pulling out a briefcase from under her seat. "I'm going to make sure no one ever has to." Inside, was a device the size and shape of a small CD. The screen upon it was black, with no reflection of the lights shining upon it.

"What is that?" I asked, forgetting my previous anger.

"Something that shouldn't exist," she replied cryptically, closing the case. "You might have heard of it as a 'Door'."

A memory flashed back, one I seldom recalled. A much younger Mycroft, being led away by strange men in suits; Mycroft coming up to me and patting me gently on the head, something on his forearm. Then, Mycroft returning after, looking years wearier, yet the body was the same as it ever was.

Something happened that night, something important. Something I could not remember.

Irene seemed to have seen my apparent distress. "Hm, must've been memory repressors. Don't worry, it will come to you right about-"

The strange thing on Mycroft's arm had sparked to life, and he quickly hurried away to the men, just as a blinding flash of light surrounded the room and revealed a- no, not possible. A black hole had erupted in the foyer, yet it did not posses the copious amounts of gravity required for a normal black hole. Not to mention it could not be created on command. And yet...

As my brother stepped through, someone stepped up to me and forced something down my throat, where the rest of the recollection goes dark. I turned to the suitcase, pointing frantically as my mind tries to assess what it had just processed. "That- that- that _thing_, it can create black holes out of thin air."

"It does much more than that. Which is why it shouldn't exist," she replied. "Yet it does."

"Why do you have one? Why- why did _Mycroft _have one?" I placed a hand on my forehead, trying to stop the car from spinning. "What does it do?"

At that precise moment, the car stopped. All to eager to leave the madness behind, I jumped out where I was greeted with a strange sight: the location was an abandoned factory, where on the highest plank stood Irene's assistant, Kate; even from that height, I could not fail to notice the device attached to her wrist. The moment she saw my face, she nodded to her boss and- and _jumped off the platform_. I was about to calculate her trajectory and speed in an attempt to rescue her when I noticed that she was no longer falling.

In fact, she was nowhere at all.

I turned around, expecting Irene to explain the situation when I saw the black hole beside her. And out popped Kate.

If my mind had even been a fraction weaker, I would have fainted. "What the- how- that completely defies the laws of physics!"

"Welcome to the real world Sherlock Holmes. Or, should I say, real _worlds_."

* * *

Irene Adler didn't exist.

Not in this dimension, at least. She led me to a street cafe to explain the situation as carefully as possible. On her was a device- a _Door_- as well. "Kate and I aren't from this dimension. Our world is very similar to yours, but is in fact a female hierarchy with much more profound sciences. I am the representative of the Council of Twenty, along with your brother, where we manage the rules and regulations of dimensional/time travel. Or, Crossing."

"There are only twenty dimensions? Why was Mycroft, of all people, chosen and why as a child?"

"There are infinitely many universes, but the twenty of us have been around longer than you think. Mycroft wasn't a child when you saw him leave that night; he's older than this Earth."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That's impossible."

She smirked. "Is it? With an infinite number of universes, do you think we haven't found the secret to immortality yet?"

I paused for a moment, then asked, "Why were you here as a dominatrix trying to bring down the British government?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. But enough of that, we don't have much time here." She looked around quickly before leaning towards me. "I know a way you can save Doctor Watson."

It became clear to me as soon as the words left her mouth. "Of course; being there an infinite number of universes, there will most certainly be one where they have the cure for him. I will just have to search all of them to find one."

Sighing, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but there are certain rules for people not of my stature. Normal Crossers can only go to thirteen worlds, and after that, they can never Cross again."

No. She could not do that. She couldn't give me a chance and then add a rule that practically took it away. Controlling my anger, I said, "Why can't you find the cure for him?"

"Obligations forbid me to do so."

"Then what fucking good is this?" I growled, swiftly standing up, my hands twitching. "What fucking good will it do me to _Cross _if there is an unlikely chance I will find the cure?"

She followed suit, eyes narrowing. "I'm already breaking hundreds of rules by showing you this, when you're in a No-Crossing world, and doing it under the nose of your brother. But this way, you at least have a bigger chance of saving John than you would have had just waiting here!"

Before storming off, she passed me the briefcase. "I but some basic rules and instructions in there as well. When you're ready, just take it out and press it to your arm. The process should start within five minutes- maybe less- before you start. Good luck."

* * *

John, sweet kind amazing John.

Immediately, I went to visit him, after the meeting with The Woman (no longer in deserving of a name). He had more machines attached to him, and his skin was pigmented lighter than even my own. And though he must have been in excruciating pain, he still smiled when he saw me.

"Greg told me the experiment went well," he said. "Did you tell Molly; she has a cat of her own. Or did you use her cat?"

I stepped closer to him, my voice oddly shaking. "John, if our situations were reversed, and there was a small chance of survival for me, but the stakes were high and there were numerous factors and improbabilities and-"

"Sherlock," his voice deepened with command, "what's wrong?"

And so I told him. Whether he believed I had become delirious, or if it was my odd coping mechanism or he thought someone had convincingly lied to me, he looked at me with deep concern and admiration. As he always did.

When I had finished, he reached for my hand, gripping it tightly, and spoke nine simple words. "I know you'll find it. I believe in you."

As if remembering something very important, he quickly went to the drawer beside his table and pulled something out. "Mrs. Hudson brought it in earlier, and I thought that you'd want me to give it to you before- well, before I couldn't." He dropped it into my open hand as I fought back tears.

For he had given me his Victorian Cross. The medal whuich the Queen herself had pinned on his chest for his admirable works in saving many good men. And he was giving it to me.

"When you look at it, it'll make you think of me; as if I'm right there beside you," he said softly. "I know, I know: _sentimental_. But, please keep it."

I wanted to cry, to scream, to explode, to be with John until the warmth left his hands and the light left his eyes and his body slowly shut down and bear with him to the end. I did none of that. Instead, I kept my cold demeanor and simply nodded. As I walked away, I wondered if I ever said goodbye.

* * *

I was in the hallway of the hospital, waiting to Cross.

Waiting to save John.

The Door was attached to me. The notes she left were crumpled in my hand after being read and reread with the information in my mind. The medal was safely in my pocket.

I wondered if is might have been some sort of hallucination; that John wasn't on his deathbed, that there weren't alternate universes where there might be a cure to his ailment, that I was in actuality on my bed resting after a hard case with John safe and healthy.

But the aching in my chest said otherwise.

Suddenly, the device began to glow, and I knew it was time. And though my hands were till vibrating, my head was throbbing and my chest hurting, I could not have been more prepared.

There seemed to be a commotion behind me. I turned, and saw Mycroft running out of the elevator, faster than he had ever done before with genuine fear in his eyes. For once, I believe he wasn't concerned as the British government with duties far beyond anyone's comprehension nor a member of the Council of Twenty who had apparently lived for millenia to keeping everything in check, but as the older brother of Sherlock Holmes. He was thinking exactly what I was: that if this failed, I would be hurt far more severely than if I had just waited for him to die.

But I had to give John a chance.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft." With those final words, I stepped through the black hole and Crossed.


End file.
